


Au Naturel

by risotto



Series: Rockhopper Studios (Pornstar AU) [2]
Category: Free!
Genre: Anal Fingering, As Pornstars, Awkward Crush, Bad Porn Titles, Bottom!Seijuurou, Cameos, Curiosity, Filming, First Time Bottoming, I'm Sorry, Kuroko no Basket Cameos, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Rimming, pornstar AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risotto/pseuds/risotto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seijuurou's got it bad. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1438540">Audition</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Au Naturel

Watching Makoto as he works is like watching poetry in motion. Or so Seijuurou believes.

It’s different than watching him on downloaded videos. It's almost voyeuristic. There’s no cheesy soundtrack or faked sounds or digital enhancements. Standing by on set with the PAs and cameramen and a precious select few, Seijuurou gets to see everything as it should be: pure and untouched. Natural. _Real_. Just the way he likes it.

Makoto’s skin is pink and glowing from exertion, long and dark eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks as he closes his eyes and straddles his (much) bigger partner’s lap. They’re not having sex yet—just tonguing each other, rubbing their stiff cocks together. Foreplay isn’t exactly the hottest thing to watch but Seijuurou’s grown to appreciate it.

For starters, it certainly helps him, gives him something good to think about when it’s _his_ time to get under those Klieg lights and mount the designated bottom for a particular flick. It’s why Seijuurou developed the habit of visiting Makoto’s sets even if he’s not working in them.

Which is, admittedly, kind of fucked up and almost like giving himself a hit of Viagra—flat-out cheating to him—but the heat and chemistry between two performers can be the perfect thing to get anyone going. And Makoto’s got the uncanny ability to create chemistry with anyone.

Even lazy bastards like Atsushi Murasakibara.

It’s almost unfair how someone as uninterested in just about everything in life gets cast alongside Makoto Tachibana, time and time again. One glance at Murasakibara’s cock reveals why. Okay, Seijuurou’ll give him that.

Still unfair, though.

The director calls for a cut so that they can move toward the next phase. Despite the natural set, it’s still a porn set, after all. One of the most unsexy places on the planet.

But it’s still hot, watching Makoto turn around and languidly crawl down Murasakibara’s large body, on all fours over him, his ass in his partner’s face, his mouth perfectly aligned with Murasakibara’s dick.

And _action_.

Makoto’s tongue swivels around Murasakibara’s length, languidly, and Seijuurou remembers his audition a how it felt to have it on him. Such a memory shouldn’t stick with him—it’s been months and he’s had his dick sucked by at least a dozen other actors. And yet...

“Ah!”

Seijuurou’s attention is drawn to Makoto’s ass. Rather, what’s being done to it. Murasakibara is using his hands, lazily spreading the firm mounds apart to give the camera quite the shot then teasing the sensitive flesh within with the pad of his massive thumb before squeezing them back together.

Murasakibara’s sweet tooth and appetite are legendary among everyone at Rockhopper Studios, surpassing even Nagisa’s, and it’s not uncommon to see him lounging in talent rooms and on makeup chairs with treats handy. So it’s no surprise how eager he is when he then dribbles something from a pink bottle down into that exposed pucker. He licks Makoto like a man starved, slowly dragging his long tongue up and down his perineum before sealing his lips over his asshole.

Judging from the hungry way he laps at it, humming loud—louder than Makoto’s moans and whimpers—with appreciation, it’s probably flavored. He pours even more of the syrupy lube. It mixes with his spit, glistening against flesh. A tiny trail of it trickles down onto his chin and he sweeps it up with his own tongue. Seijuurou decides maybe he ought to take back everything he’s ever said about Murasakibara being uninterested.

Just as Seijuurou thinks enough’s enough, the director calls for another cut, and the set is bustling with activity and noise again as the crew dismantles the cameras and reflectors.

It’s the perfect chance to make his escape yet somehow in the midst of all this activity, Makoto manages to find him.

“Hi,” Makoto says, voice chirpy. He has on a towel and nothing else, and he’s dabbing at his glowing face with a corner of it, _just in case_. He’s just so endearing and innocent, Seijuurou nearly forgets he was having his ass eaten out not five minutes ago.

“Hey,” Seijuurou manages. “Just came to see how you were doing. You guys done for the day?”

Makoto looks over the crew taking apart everything and setting things aside to sanitize them and to clear the space for what may be another scene for another day. “They’re going to set up by the pool outside. Haru needs the sunlight.”

Mercifully, Makoto doesn’t ask why Seijuurou’s there, though he does ask where he’s headed afterwards, and frowns a little when Seijuurou says he’s got to head to a brief meeting with Nagisa Hazuki then to one of the studios for a scene.

“Oh, I thought you were in between med-checks,” Makoto says, his voice just a notch above a whisper.

It makes Seijuurou’s eyebrow arch but he doesn’t say anything about it. “Nah, I was cleared yesterday.”

Awkward silence is destined to ensue but somehow, Makoto bypasses it and asks, “How about a wrap party?”

“Huh?”

“I’m having a little get-together at my place tonight. I was wondering if you’d like to come?”

“A get-together?”

Makoto blinks a few times as if to make sure Seijuurou’s okay (and, honestly, he’s not sure if he even is), then chuckles. “Yes. Have you ever been to one?” Somehow, he manages to ask that without sounding patronizing, which is a miracle in of itself.

“Yeah.” Of course Seijuurou’s been to one. In its heyday, Samezuka Entertainment was, like, _the_ place for wrap parties. Also drug-busts by the cops and all sorts of shady shit, but that’s not important.

What’s important is that Makoto is inviting him to _his_ place. He’d be insane to refuse such an offer. “Sure, why not? I’ll stop by,” he says, sounding a little smug.

Makoto looks positively thrilled. “Really? Oh, I’m glad—”

“ _Oi_. Tachichin...”

A giant shadow looms behind Makoto then, as it grows closer, over them _both_ , effectively interrupting whatever meet-cute type of moment they were sharing.

Murasakibara.

“Ah, Murasakibara-san,” Makoto smiles nervously as he turns to face the much bigger man. “I’d like you to meet Sei—”

Murasakibara cuts him off with a rather loud yawn. If it’s intentional or not, it doesn’t show on his face. He just looks like he’d rather be sleeping. “Director’s asking for you.”

Knowing it’s career suicide to piss off a director—especially such a prolific and eccentric one like Haruka Nanase—Seijuurou waves a flustered-looking Makoto off and tells him he’ll see him at the party. And because he’s not an asshole, he also tells Murasakibara that it was nice to meet him.

The purple-haired man just yawns, again, and walks back to the poolside with Makoto.

Seijuurou watches them. He’s got a lot of time to kill. Why not?

They’re leaning against each other, listening closely as the director explains the scene and set directions. Murasakibara’s nuzzling and sighing against Makoto’s temple, his big fingers making slow, lazy circles over his nipple. This sort of canoodling isn’t unusual in porn, or even in ‘regular’ productions. The actors do it to get used to each other, to keep the blood flowing between takes, the mood _right_. Seijuurou always thought it was kind of unnecessary because sooner or later, someone’s dick is going into someone’s mouth or ass. But whatever—he’s in no position to judge anyone for whatever raises their mojo.

Seijuurou can’t help snorting as Murasakibara shamelessly keeps feeling Makoto up, that bored, sleepy look on his face the entire time. _Feh_. Method actors.

Then Murasakibara says something and grabs a big handful of ass, to which Makoto laughs and nudges him for, and Seijuurou decides he’s finally had enough. He then leaves, wondering why he was ever there in the first place.

  


\--

  


_Lust in Translation_ is the latest short in the growing _Salaryman_ ♥ series, part of Rockhopper Studios’ attempts to capitalize on what’s sure to be another one of their cash-cow series. As much of a boon to any actor’s career that it is, Seijuurou’s even more excited at the prospect of working with Makoto again.

He arrives early to the set. He’s showered and scrubbed clean and waits in his makeup chair, reading over the script and trying to memorize his lines. The scene takes up a whopping four pages in the booklet, yet he can hardly contain his excitement enough to focus on it.

The director, Masako Araki comes over, venti triple shot mocha in one hand, her trusty shinai in the other, the day’s call sheet and other papers tucked beneath her arm. If not for the shinai, Seijuurou’d think she’s on her way to a corporate office or something. Definitely not a porn set. (Which, ironically, _is_ an office, complete with desks, computers, and assorted office supplies.)

Araki gives him a copy of the call sheet and Seijuurou skims it over, his eyes scanning for the cast list—specifically, his costar. It’s not who he wants it to be. Realistically, it wouldn’t have been _him_ anyway, yet he can’t help the twist of disappointment in his gut when he doesn’t see a certain name.

His costar is Tatsuya Himuro. More pretty than handsome, known for having maybe the most female fans out of anyone. His beauty mark reminds Seijuurou of Aiichirou Nitori. He speaks English fluently. And like a certain someone, he’s a switch though he’s happy to bottom.

The scene calls for sex on top of a copy machine. Himuro “The Foreign Salary Man” notices it’s on the fritz and, in a panic, calls in Seijuurou “The Repair Man” on his off-day to fix it before anyone else—specifically, Himuro’s boss—is alerted to it. For some reason and because of porn logic, Himuro’s character is “surprised” that extra payment is required for discreet and expedited services.

“Ah, no money,” Himuro says in quite the believable accent.

“That’s okay,” Seijuurou says around a smirk, removing his service cap and unbuckling his belt in one smooth movement. “I can think of a few other forms of payment…”

Himuro’s on his knees and sucking him off in moments flat.

Himuro, Seijuurou learns, is smooth and efficient at his job. Not overly flashy or the type to rush through things to get them over with. He takes his time, knows this is more than just about the two of them. It’s about the audience watching at home.

But he’s not Makoto.

Seijuurou doesn’t even know why he’s thinking of him right now. Strange, because it’s been months since they fucked each other twice on Nagisa’s couch and he’s filmed steadily since then with no problems. Not since he saw him with Murasakibara…

Who’s been rumored to be dating the guy blowing him now. Small world.

He wonders if Makoto’s fucked Himuro. Or if he’s been in a threesome with him. Seijuurou’s mind starts to wander, and it’s not long before he’s imagining Makoto, flushed and moaning wantonly, sandwiched between Murasakibara’s massive frame and Himuro’s smaller, slender one…

There’s a soft pop. “What’s wrong?”

Huh? Seijuurou snaps out of his daze and looks down at the head of black hair in between his legs. Going soft in the middle of a scene is just as bad as coming before the money shot—thankfully, he’s _not_ soft, far from it, actually. He’s still hard and thick in the other man’s mouth. He can feel a rush of sensation that’s making his thighs twitch and it won’t be long till he’s giving him a facial. Himuro’s clever enough to pull away from him, at least.

“Nothing,” Seijuurou says, carding his fingers through Himuro’s dark hair and over his cheek, “sorry.”

“Mm.” With one last flick of his tongue and a knowing stare—the universal sign to just move things along and pretend nothing happened—Himuro stands and braces his arms against the copy machine, his hips sticking out into the light. As they shift around, Seijuurou realizes for the first time that Himuro’s about the same height as Makoto. A different build, with different skin pallor, but it’s enough.

The rest of the scene goes through without a hitch though Seijuurou can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed. He’s just not sure what it is.

  


\--

  


He’s still thinking about it hours later while waiting at the gym for Nitori to show up.

It’s a nonconventional routine they’ve developed, working out together. Nitori’s all knees and elbows and can’t even lift his own body weight despite his best efforts. But as far as Seijuurou’s concerned, Nitori’s ace in his book and if he needs a spotter or someone to help him get into better shape, then so be it. It’s the least Seijuurou can do for someone who helped get him the job with Rockhopper Studios anyway.

The normally punctual Nitori shows up a little later—which meant another fifteen minutes tacked onto the ten minute leeway Seijuurou likes to give himself for arriving ‘fashionably late’. Nitori’s limping, canceling out any complaints on his punctuality.

“You all right?”

“I’m okay,” Nitori insists. His smile is frozen onto his youthful face, though Seijuurou can easily tell it’s strained. Nitori drops his water bottle and sits down on one of the weight benches and just _grimaces_. “Oh—we were going to do lifts today, right?”

Seijuurou tips a brow. “Actually, how about we just do light cardio today?”

Nitori nods, looking absolutely relieved, and limps on over to a nearby pair of unused treadmills.

Normally, pressing the issue isn’t Seijuurou’s style, especially when it’s not his business, but even he can’t deny the surge of empathy within him when, after punching in some buttons on the control panel, Nitori lets out a sharp hiss. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Seijuurou asks. “You can barely walk.”

Nitori looks embarrassed, pale face flushed with color. “It’s nothing. I just… I finished filming today…”

“Oh.”

When he worked at Samezuka Entertainment with Seijuurou, Nitori was a fluffer and looked to continue the unenviable work with Rockhopper Studios until Nagisa insisted he get to work on some scenes with him. Now, ‘Ai-chan’ is making a name for himself in minor supporting roles—things he’s mentioned in lengthy conversations during their workouts.

Lengthy conversations that Seijuurou, admittedly, can’t recall off the top of his head if someone paid him. He only remembers one of them— _The Gang Bang Theory_ —and only because the name is fucking hilarious and clever. Good ol’ Nagisa.

But thinking about it now and seeing how just taking a single step is torture, it’s alarming.

“So,” Seijuurou says when the treadmill’s whirring was starting to get to him. “What happened?”

“Oh nothing.”

“No, it’s not ‘nothing’. You’re in pain,” Seijuurou’s tone brooks no argument, “tell me what happened.”

The younger man’s face scrunches up guiltily. “I was filming and, um, Aomine-san was a bit rough,” Nitori says, his voice trailing like a nervous child.

“Oh, that son of a—”

“No, it’s not like that,” Nitori interjects, and before Seijuurou can argue about how Nitori doesn’t have to defend that blue-haired fuck, the smaller man adds that the script actually called for a bit of roughness.

Oh.

 _Two and a Half Twinks_ doesn’t sound like the type of film that’d call for rough sex but Seijuurou’s willing to give him the benefit of a doubt. “If you say so,” he concedes.

“And, anyway,” Nitori adds, “he was a lot rougher with Sakurai-san than he was with me.”

Seijuurou chokes. Rougher? What, so did that mean Sakurai was in the fucking _hospital_?

Just one mental image of Nitori and Ryou Sakurai holding on for dear life as they’re being pounded into and, suddenly, the title doesn’t sound so funny anymore.

Seijuurou’s got to hand it to them for taking it like men. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Not a lot. I mean you get used to it after a while. It feels good, too.” Nitori shrugs and puts his ear buds in. He’s listening to something mellow and in moments, he’s lost in his own world of walking.

Feels good, huh.

  


\--

  


Makoto’s place is a gigantic apartment in a trendy, high-end district that Makoto would have never chosen for himself. His publicist insisted he buy it back when the first release of the _Salaryman Mako-chan_ ♥ series was starting to make waves, claiming it was good for his image.

Seijuurou’s not sure about the real estate aspects of it but he definitely remembers that series vividly and tries to avoid shifting around in an obvious manner.

Nitori tells him all of this and more as they nurse their drinks—mineral water for Seijuurou, and an appletini for Nitori—and engage in some people-watching from one of the corners of the loft. It’s one of the more entertaining ways to pass the time, considering more than half of the people at this ‘get-together’ are couples and the other half are people Seijuurou recognizes from work but doesn’t really know well enough to socialize with.

It’s kind of awkward, especially once Nitori is summoned away by one of his industry friends and leaves Seijuurou alone.

At that point, it feels like everyone is looking at Seijuurou, judging him, noting him for who he is: a sexually-confused actor, single and out of his element. Everyone else has everything figured out and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t, and everyone around him knows.

Annoyed and maybe feeling a little vulnerable because of it, he flags down one of the servers and downs a shot of whatever looks the strongest on the tray. Then another. And another. Until his head starts swimming and the world he sees is blurry and switching between spinning entirely too fast and tilting too slow.

The urge to piss is strong, too. On the way, his shoulder is roughly bumped into by someone else. Or maybe he hasn’t adjusted to how narrow the hallways are. Yeah.

“Watch where y’goin’, asshole,” he slurs.

The asshole in question blocking his path turns out to be Sousuke Yamazaki. Not really an asshole, as far as Seijuurou knows, but he doesn’t look like he’s in the most pleasant mood, either. Whatever. He just wants to get by this big, black-haired wall.

Sousuke’s sneering expression and his tipped eyebrow say a lot more than words could ever hope to. For some reason—maybe because of the tequila and scotch and whatever else floating in his bloodstream—that seems to set Seijuurou off.

“What? You got somethin’ to say?” Stumble-stepping closer to him, he jabs his finger into the other actor’s sternum. Only, his coordination is shot and his finger veers way off course, jamming into a spot somewhere on Sousuke’s shoulder instead.

“Listen,” Sousuke starts, his tone patient but not very friendly, given the circumstances. “I don’t know what your problem is—”

“Problem? My ‘problem’?” Seijuurou snarls. His voice is a lot louder than it normally is and it ought to be. But there’s music playing and he wants his voice heard, damn it. “I’ll tell _you_ what _my_ fucking problem is, you—”

From the small crowd gathering emerges one Makoto Tachibana, swooping by to loop his arm through Seijuurou’s and coaxing him away from the brewing turmoil around Sousuke. “O~kay, here we go, this way,” he says and Seijuurou’s unable to fight him off.

The master bedroom is nice and spacious, with loft windows and one hell of a view of the city. Seijuurou barely manages to process this information before Makoto coaxes him down on the king-sized bed in the room’s center. The sheets are clean and cotton-comfortable and they smell like fresh laundry. A shame, because as drunk as he is, even Seijuurou knows he smells like last call at a dive bar.

“These Egyptian cotton?” he slurs against the pillow Makoto, of course, fluffs for him.

Makoto doesn’t respond with anything beyond a sigh. Instead, he shuffles over to the foot of his bed and pushes Seijuurou’s feet back up onto the mattress so they’re not dangling over the mattress. For some reason, the image reminds Seijuurou of a scene from back in his straight-porn days where he played the role of a patient with a bad case of priapism and, to help alleviate his stress and pain, his dutiful buxom nurse sucked and rode him.

Now, Makoto’s not a nurse (though the image of him in a nurse’s uniform did spurn Seijuurou’s interest), but Seijuurou’s pretty certain he wouldn’t mind it if he sucked and rode him.

And for some reason, he feels the need to tell Makoto this, and so he does—or at least, he thinks he does. He knows his mouth’s open and words are tumbling out without inhibition, but he’s not sure if they’re the ones he means to say.

  


\--

  


At first, there’s black, then there’s white, searing and blinding white, and a constant pounding at his head. There’s also a lurch somewhere in his stomach and it feels like the it’s moving around on its own.

Ah, the wonderful little pleasures of a hangover.

Also known as one of many reasons why Seijuurou seldom drinks in the first place. He can’t even remember the last time he’d gotten drunk—let alone the last time he’d blacked out from drinking so much. It’s been years. The gross dryness in his mouth reminds him why.

At the very least, he knows where he is—Makoto’s bedroom—which means whatever happened after he lost all conscious thought couldn’t have been too bad. He’s still in the clothes he wore to the wrap-party the night before, with all his organs intact. So far so good.

He drags himself out of the bed, ignoring the rumble in his stomach and the achy pressure on his head with some success, and stumbles towards the en-suite bathroom. Climbing into the shower and letting himself fall on his ass in there sounds like an excellent idea right about now.

He makes it without incident to the bathroom and finds a Post-It on the mirror, in big bold handwriting that even his blurry eyes can make out:

**Please make yourself comfortable. There are spare towels and toothbrushes in the bottom drawer. Set your clothes on the floor and I’ll put them in the laundry for you as soon as I get back. -- Makoto**

Yeah. Sure thing.

With no intention of ever letting Makoto see him like this, Seijuurou quickly disrobes and makes use of the facilities: a prayer to the porcelain gods followed by a post-prayer baptism of bleach he found beneath the sink, two rounds of vigorous teeth brushing and gargling, and a swift but thorough ice-cold shower.

When he gets to his own place, he’ll repeat the entire process again, just to make sure. But once he’s out, he feels much better.

The shower wasn’t quick enough because when he steps back into the master bedroom, there’s Makoto, tidying up things, a tray of coffee, aspirin, and a small bowl of soup—a hangover breakfast platter—set on the nightstand.

“Good morning,” he says, brightly. He’s chipper. Good. That means Seijuurou didn’t fuck up too badly.

“Hey,” Seijuurou croaks.

“Feeling better?”

More or less. Seijuurou nods, then looks around. “Where are my…?”

“They’re in the laundry. I tried to snag them earlier, but you were still sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you.” Only Makoto would sound apologetic over someone else’s fuck-ups. “So I brought you these to wear in the meantime, if you want.”

Makoto holds up a pile of clothes—a pair of sweatpants and an oversized plain t-shirt. Hallelujah. Seijuurou accepts them with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “What are you, my wife?”

Makoto laughs with him. “I think I’ve been a wife in a few of my roles…”

“Yeah, but for work,” Seijuurou says as he slips the shirt on. He means nothing by it, but the crestfallen look on Makoto’s face—like he’s remembered something all of a sudden—has him wishing he hadn’t said anything at all. “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, I’m sorry,” Makoto says hastily, turning on his heel, “I have to go check on the washer anyway. So…”

Without warning, Seijuurou pulls on his arm to stop him. “Wait, stop. What’s the matter?”

Makoto’s quiet, lips pursed tight, head bowed a bit. “It’s…about last night.”

Oh no. Seijuurou should have known it didn’t end as well as he thought. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says automatically, “I went too far with the drinking. I don’t—”

“It’s not that,” says Makoto. Under his breath, he mutters something about everyone getting wasted and it not being a big deal.

“Oh.” Seijuurou’s grip on his arm loosens considerably. So then what? “Was it Sousuke? I’m already planning on apologizing—”

Makoto looks up, looks him dead in the eye. “You don’t remember at all? What you said to me?”

“What I said?” Seijuurou tries to think back to last night, but all he gets are fragments, nothing solid or in order. He said lots of things, most of which he doesn’t remember, but judging from how Makoto had been no more than five minutes ago, it couldn’t have been that bad.

Right?

Seijuurou doesn’t know what else to say except ask, timidly, “what did I say?”

Jaw set firmly, Makoto stares at him—not angry, but… “You said you wanted to fuck me.”

Strange and incongruous hearing it come from him, of all people. It hits him hard and Seijuurou doesn’t know how to react, so he chooses to let it roll off his shoulders as he shrugs, unconcerned. Supposedly. “Well, I was drunk. And—um, you know, with our work…”

“You said you wanted to do it for real. You wanted it to mean something.”

Oh.

Fuck.

In reality, Seijuurou doesn’t recall even saying those words, yet the sentiment behind them couldn’t be any truer. Why he thought he could worm his way out of admitting something like that to Makoto, he’d never know. He hates his pride sometimes.

Time passes, and Seijuurou doesn’t say anything to stoke or smother the flames, too shocked to even do anything beyond standing there with his mouth slack agape like some kind of idiot.

Makoto cracks a broken smile. “Nevermind,” he murmurs. “Forget I said anything.”

Seijuurou groans into his hand, wishing he could undo the past week. “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, Seijuurou. I understand.”

“No. No.” Sitting on the bed and tugging Makoto down to sit with him, Seijuurou murmurs, “It’s not like how you probably think it is, Makoto. Yeah, I was drunk, but what I said wasn’t a lie. I did mean it. It’s all I’ve been thinking of for months and months.” It feels better, telling the truth rather than hiding it.

“Sometimes,” he adds, with a small sigh and a laugh, “it’s like I can’t think about anything else. I couldn’t even fuck Himuro because I was busy thinking of you. And that was with Araki standing by with her kendo stick of death.”

Makoto’s shoulders stiffen. “You could have just asked Nagisa,” he murmurs. “He could have arranged something, maybe a scene…”

“Makoto,” Seijuurou’s hand slides from Makoto’s elbow down to his wrist, which he holds gingerly. The skin there is soft and cool, a contrast to the hard heat of Seijuurou’s rough palms. “I said I wanted it to be real. Outside of work. Just you and me.”

Makoto’s eyes are pointedly lowered, focused on the way they twist and bend against each other in his lap. “...so why didn’t you ever just ask?”

There’s a million reasons why, but none of them seem accurate enough to justify the pang in Seijuurou’s chest at how relieved Makoto sounds. Using his knuckle, he lifts Makoto’s chin so they’re facing each other. “Would you have said yes?”

“Of course!” Makoto blurts, then shrinks when he sees the stunned look that’s no doubt plastered over Seijuurou’s face. “I mean, I don’t want it to seem like...that, I just—nevermind. Sorry.”

Embarrassed, Makoto tries to turn and hide but Seijuurou’s got them both this far, so he cradles Makoto’s again, moves in until they’re a hair’s width apart. “Makoto,” he whispers, “I don’t want to fuck you.”

As expected, Makoto whirls to face him, taken aback. He parts his lips for a ‘what?’, but Seijuurou cuts him off before he gets the chance—

“I want you to fuck me.”

—and kisses him, his heart skipping a beat when Makoto makes a needy noise into his mouth that sounds like a ‘yes.’

  


\--

  


There are packets of lube and condoms in the nightstand drawer. From his spot on the bed, waiting on trembling hands and knees, Seijuurou cranes his neck to sneak a peek over his shoulder and catches a brief glimpse of a very naked Makoto getting things from out of there. The drawer shuts with a soft click of finality.

Makoto climbs onto the bed behind Seijuurou who opens his mouth, to ask something though he’s not sure _what_ , because all he knows—and feels—now are Makoto’s fingers, long and lean and drenched with warm lube, rubbing soft circles around his taint, his asshole. The air gusts out of his chest when one of those fingers—the middle, it has to be, because it feels _too long_ —pushes into his ass. Slowly and with great care.

He manages to look up, sees Makoto knelt over him, watching, his brows knit tight with concern. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Seijuurou says, chest deflating with a harsh exhale.

It’s not painful, or pleasurable, but there is a definite pressure there he can’t ignore or brush off. It’s not entirely unfamiliar to him—Seijuurou’s finger-fucked himself before on several occasions, mostly out of curiousity and in exactly one solo-scene. It never felt good or painful, just strange. He’s heard of the Magic Button or whatever, but it just didn’t do it for him. Maybe he’s one of those weirdos that can’t glean the kind of pleasure that makes his eyes roll into the back of his head from this. Or maybe he’d always done it wrong, who knows?

“I’m going to add another finger, okay?”

And Makoto does just that. Not much change, only more force, and Seijuurou decides, _what the hell, go ahead and add another._

Makoto’s three fingers in, knuckle-deep and pressing against his balls, and all Seijuurou has to show for it (besides a very weird and new feeling to tell exactly no one about) is a body glowy with sweat. Some people are just meant to take it. He can handle it.

“Go ahead,” Seijuurou says, his voice husky.

“Huh?”

Because he’s not about to beg for it, and he can’t think of a way to ask for it without sounding like the six-foot-two man with the body of a bronzed god he thinks he is, Seijuurou grips the sheets and juts his ass out. Kind of like Himuro did on the copy machine but with less finesse. Maybe.

“Oh, okay. Then…” Makoto grips his hips, lines himself up, then pushes himself in.

Earlier, Seijuurou thought he could handle it.

Turns out, he can’t.

He really can’t.

It burns. There’s just no other way to describe it. If he wasn’t so overwhelmed by the pressure of a huge cock going up his ass, he’d probably wonder how in the world Makoto hasn’t gone soft from the strange, unattractive noises he’s making.

“Fu-u-ck,” Seijuurou grunts, and it doesn’t sound like the guttural, sexy noises he’s required to make when the cameras are rolling either.

Makoto stops—not even fully in and he fucking stops and rubs his hands soothingly over Seijuurou’s ass and hips. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t—” Seijuurou wants to scream out and swear off anal sex forever, but he’d be lying. In some sick, sad way, he actually wants this. “I’m fine,” he grinds through his teeth.

And to think, Nitori took it up the ass almost on daily basis, sometimes two at a time, by people nowhere near half as considerate as Makoto.

That kid deserves a medal.

“I’m hurting you.” Makoto stops.

“It’s—it’s okay.” Seijuurou shakes his head. “Just keep going. It…fades after a while, doesn’t it?”

Makoto doesn’t say anything.

Okay. So maybe he didn’t hear him. “Doesn’t it?” Seijuurou repeats, louder.

“Want to try another position? This isn’t the best for first-timers…”

“Now you tell me,” Seijuurou says, sounding a lot more calm than he thinks he ought to be. That info would have been useful minutes ago before his ass was nearly destroyed, but what’s done is done. Makoto slides out and Seijuurou tries to ignore the squelching noise—and the strange, very strange, feeling of unfulfilled _want_ once he’s out.

There’s some repositioning and despite their long limbs, it’s not as awkward as Seijuurou expects—Makoto’s careful and delicate as he handles Seijuurou’s legs, gets up to his knees, and lowers Seijuurou’s body down before him on Egyptian cotton.

Strange. Seijuurou can’t count how many times he’s held others down in similar fashion. Yet this is all foreign and new to him, looking _up_ instead of down, nervous anticipation creeping up his neck.

Makoto slicks himself up with more lube then asks him if he’s ready to which Seijuurou puffs out a breathy, mostly confident laugh and says, “as I’ll ever be.”

“Mm.” Smiling, Makoto leans down and peppers soft kisses to his jaw. Already Seijuurou can tell he likes this position more.

Then Makoto pushes into him again. It’s not sudden, but definitely not as slow as before, and Seijuurou’s breath hitches, like he’s heard something crack within him and he’s not sure if it shouldn’t _not_ hurt.

Makoto presses deeper, filling him to the hilt, their hips flush against each other. And then the worst is, presumably, over.

The air hisses out from between Seijuurou’s teeth as the hot, bruised feeling starts to fade. The weight of Makoto’s broad chest is heavy and warm as he leans down and kisses him again—this time properly on the mouth, tender and careful.

It’s a wonderful distraction because a breath later, Makoto’s pulling back. The first thrust rolls Seijuurou’s hips up hard and tears a ragged moan straight out of his throat.

Another thrust, slower this time, and it burns from tip to root, prompting Seijuurou to brace himself for what’s sure to come, his hands clutching on the curve of Makoto’s impressive biceps. Makoto doesn’t disappoint, and he’s pushing in and pulling out of him in a sort of rhythm Seijuurou’s own hips—and mind—can barely keep up with.

The mattress creaks, the headboard thumps rhymically against the wall behind it in tune with the flex-and-jerk of Makoto’s narrow hips. A wonderful symphony of sounds Seijuurou might appreciate if what little remaining sanity he’s got left wasn’t so focused on the fact that Makoto’s fucking _him_. Holy shit.

Something hot curls around his dick—Seijuurou’s muddled brain faintly recognizes it as Makoto’s fist—and just as he’s going to insist that he can stroke his own cock, Makoto lifts his hips just _so_ , angling his thrust so the tip of his dick touches against something deep inside of Seijuurou that makes him bite into the side of his hand, almost down to the bone.

Well. Now he knows why they call it the Magic Button.

“You like that, Sei-chan?” Makoto purrs over the sinful sound of their hips slapping against each other.

It’s not the standard _oh baby yeah, fuck yeah, take it, ooh yeah you love it don’t you?_ that’s par the course in their career, yet it still manages to make his cock spasm and leak. Seijuurou thinks he may have sighed out a “Yeah,” because Makoto takes that as incentive to buck his hips even _faster_.

Ecstasy cuts through Seijuurou’s nerves, and he knows he’s almost at his breaking point. He just needs a little more, a little bit more—

Makoto scrapes his slick tongue over the shell of his ear. “Always wanted to fuck you, Sei-chan,” he pants, thickly.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

One hard and deep thrust, one firm stroke of his cock, and Seijuurou arches up off the mattress, his head thrown back onto the pillow as he howls out without a sound, tension and relief rippling through his shaking body at the same time. His own cum splatters onto his stomach, burning him, each spurt sending him further and further over the edge into the white void behind his eyelids. _Shit, fuck, god_ damn _Makoto_ —

A golden moment later, Seijuurou slumps back onto the bed, body slick with sweat, lungs tight and on fire. His eyes open. Just in time.

Above him, Makoto stiffens, his thrusts stopping. He moans, a strangled, almost tortured sound and Seijuurou knows just from watching him for so long that he’s about to come. Which makes him wonder what it would be like to have Makoto’s cum inside of him...

He doesn’t find out. Spent, Makoto pulls out and collapses gracelessly onto the bed beside him with boneless relief. His skin’s damp, his hair even damper and sticking out all over the place, the ends dripping tiny beads of sweat onto the sheets. And even then, he still has the decency to turn his back to Seijuurou to double over and show off the defined lines of his back as he removes the condom, ties it up, and tosses it into the bedside trash.

Seijuurou laughs, a raspy, barky sound. With some effort, Makoto turns partly, the visible side of his face burning bright red. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just—” Seijuurou pulls Makoto down to him. Like the rest of his body, and especially his ass, his arm’s sore, but it’s the good kind of sore—the kind from an intense, fulfulling workout. He reckons he won’t be sitting normally for a few days, though. “Mm. You’re unreal.”

Makoto smiles against Seijuurou’s collarbone, peers up at him through damp strands of hair. “I hope you mean that in a good way.”

“Of course I do,” Seijuurou says as he nudges him.

They sigh together and lay together, and it’s comfortably quiet between them for a good long while until Makoto starts fidgeting. He wants to say something, Seijuurou can tell without even looking at him. “What is it, Makoto?”

“Nothing, just—I meant what I said, you know,” he mumbles.

What he said? Seijuurou blinks. “You mean that you always wanted to—”

“Don’t say it out loud!” Makoto ducks into the crook of Seijuurou’s arm.

“—fuck me?” The glint shining off Seijuurou’s teeth is sharp. “And yet you never said anything about it before? Coulda fooled me.”

Makoto’s head pops up and he’s, well, he’s not _pouting_ , but he’s damn close and smiling too, so Seijuurou doesn’t feel one bit guilty about teasing him. “Sorry, but I really did. I just didn’t know how to say it,” Makoto says, pinching Seijuurou’s flank.

“’Sorry,’ eh?” Seijuurou thinks out loud and Makoto’s head tilts, expectant. Allowing himself to get more comfortably sprawled out on the mattress, Seijuurou spreads his legs and gives one meaningful nod in their direction. “Get down there and make it up to me.”

There’s no argument from Makoto. He simply smirks, burrows beneath the sheets and moves down Seijuurou’s body.

They spend the next few hours apologizing to each other, over and over again.

  


\--

  


The next day, at the gym, it’s Nitori’s turn to ask Seijuurou if he’s okay when the redhead limps and winces everywhere. Seijuurou dismisses his concern with a small laugh and tells him, off-handedly, “you’re a fucking beast of a man, Nitori, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Nitori wonders what the hell Seijuurou means by that but decides perhaps it’s simply best to not ask.

**Author's Note:**

> *flies away into the sun*


End file.
